


For next day will a stranger bring

by lovelycarcass



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Vaguely inspired by Rumpelstiltskin, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:37:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelycarcass/pseuds/lovelycarcass
Summary: On Tuesdays, without fail, Isak's first customer orders a drink at the café, gives a name and leaves. He never uses the same name twice.





	For next day will a stranger bring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [piccadilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piccadilly/gifts).



> I've always wanted to gift a fic to someone (hooray to ao3 for its interactivity) and so I'm gifting this to piccadilly who's a much better writer than I am. I don't know you and I only know you through your writing, but you've been so sweet with all your encouraging comments and I'm in love with your story. So here's a present! I hope you enjoy reading.

_"Merrily the feast I'll make._  
_Today I'll brew, tomorrow bake;_  
_Merrily I'll dance and sing,_  
_For next day will a stranger bring._  
_Little does my lady dream_  
_Rumpelstiltskin is my name._  
_Rumpelstiltskin is my name!"_

_Rumpelstiltskin, Grimm's Fairy Tales_

* * *

 

When the bell tinkles at the door, Isak grabs an empty cup and a spare marker without raising his head. 

“What would you like to drink?” He asks tonelessly. It’s the ass crack of dawn on a Tuesday. The sun is barely up. The sky is a deep, sleepy blue with the faintest hint of orange. With the exception of a few morning joggers and the odd delivery truck, no one else is around. 

And every damn Tuesday, at the same ungodly hour, the same man shows up at the café.

Don’t get him wrong – Isak doesn’t mind waking up and doing the opening shift. It’s just once a week, and he’s always liked quiet mornings before the rest of the world comes to life. But it’s this _guy._ God. This infuriating man, who comes to the café, seems to be hell bent on irritating Isak and dampening his Tuesday mornings.

First of all, Tuesday Man can’t fucking make up his mind about his coffee order. He hems and haws, taps a finger to his plump bottom lip (at which Isak most definitely _doesn’t_ stare), shifts his weight from foot to foot. He runs a hand through his hair, a perfect eyebrow quirked in deep contemplation. He trails a finger downwards, hand fluttering in the air, as he studies the overhead menu.

And every damn Tuesday, he orders something different. This means that Isak has to _wait_ every single time Tuesday Man squints his eyes and scans the menu, eyelashes fanning his cheeks. He has to grit his teeth through every damn hum that Tuesday Man makes, the low sound reverberating around the quiet café. He has to restrain himself from drumming his fingers for every agonizing minute that Tuesday Man takes, before he finally settles on his drink of the day. 

Second of all – and this is the thing that really gets on Isak’s nerves – Tuesday Man also can’t make up his mind about his goddamn name. Every single week, when Isak asks for his name (it’s in the employee handbook – Isak can’t _not_ perform the critical step in ringing up orders), Tuesday Man never gives him the same one twice.

And each time, Isak has to hold back an eyeroll, tighten his grip on his marker, and scrawl the alias-of-the-day on Tuesday Man’s coffee order.

The thing is, Isak takes pride in his work. He likes routine and methodology and discipline. He’s a quick worker, and his manager likes him. He’s developed his own way of doing things that helps him work more productively. And Tuesday Man is breaking into his well-oiled system like a needle to a balloon.

He also can’t help the sneaking suspicion that Tuesday Man is somehow _making fun_ of him in his subtle, devious little way. Especially when Tuesday Man flashes this fucking secretive smile at him. Like he’s telling him a joke and he’s _never_ going to drop the punch line. The worst part is Isak thinks Tuesday Man _knows_ what he’s doing. He knows how he’s winding Isak up. And he takes every pleasure in doing so. Isak has valiantly held himself back from spitting into his drink several times.

On this Tuesday, it’s Pumpkin Spiced Latte.

He flickers his gaze briefly towards Tuesday Man and rattles off the price of the drink. His customer is wearing a pair of dark jeans and a soft grey hoodie, drawstrings fraying at the ends. It’s almost unfair how good he looks in normal street wear.

Isak sniffs and shuts down the thought before it can take on a strange direction and wander too far away.

When he lifts up his head further, he nearly sighs. Again, Tuesday Man is grinning at him. All soft and playful. Isak feels a prickle of annoyance rise in his chest and he tamps it down with a harsh bite upon the inside of his cheek.

“Your name, please,” Isak exhales, dropping his shoulders. He’s determined not to be ruffled. Not to get caught up in Tuesday Man’s stupid trick. He’s going to be professional. 

With renewed vigor, he tightens his grip around his marker, hand poised over the curve of the empty cup.

There is a quiet lull that makes Isak break out of his mood. He raises his head and catches sight of Tuesday Man staring pensively across the cash register at his chest. Or more specifically, his nametag. 

“Isak,” Tuesday Man declares.

Isak blinks at him.

“Alright, that’s it Rumpel,” Isak huffs, setting the cup down. “Stealing my name?”

“Rumpel?” Tuesday Man scrunches his nose.

“Stiltskin,” Isak cuts in without missing a beat. “That’s what we’re playing at, right? I’m supposed to guess your name so you’ll leave my firstborn alone?”

That gets a startled laugh out of the guy. He looks – for lack of a better expression – ridiculously charmed. Which is in itself a _ridiculous_ idea. Isak doesn’t know why he’s picked up on this strange notion.

As his laughter dies, Tuesday Man gazes back at him evenly.

Isak’s stomach flips when he catches sight of the bluest fucking eyes. Isak chokes out a halfhearted cough; to break the awkward quiet or for lack of something else to say. Face burning, he ducks his head and fiddles around with the cash register, handing Tuesday Man his change in a hurry.

His skin is prickling with the heated sensation of roving eyes upon him. Pivoting around, Isak gets to work in a haste. He makes the drink efficiently, wiping down the counter while he’s at it. 

He slides a coffee sleeve onto the cup and places it before his customer.

“Thank you,” he mumbles stupidly. He cringes at the sound of his voice. What's he thanking him for? For his relentless efforts in complicating his Tuesdays? For making him play his stupid name-game? For laughing at him; with those little creases on his nose and those pink lips stretched wide, almost as if he wanted Isak to get the wrong -

“Meet me after your shift.”

Wait. What?

“Wait. What?” Isak says aloud, cheeks flaming. He struggles to put on an affronted look. But he thinks it must come off confused instead. “Why would I do that?”

“I can’t offer you spun gold," Tuesday Man tells him, eyes twinkling. "But...I can buy you dinner.”

Perplexed, Isak frowns. “And why would you do that?”

A slow smile spreads across Tuesday Man’s face. He studies Isak’s face for a long moment. There’s a twist in Isak’s belly, low and deep and slow.

“Because,” Tuesday Man finally says, voice soft. 

There’s another jingle at the entrance, but Isak can’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. He stares at Tuesday Man, eyes flicking towards the slope of his nose, the curve of his lips. 

“That’s my cue,” Tuesday Man says, smiling. He grabs his coffee and slides a crisp bill across the counter. Then, pulling his ball cap low, Tuesday Man strides away from the cash register and out of the door, the bell tinkling softly in his wake.

It doesn’t occur to him that Tuesday Man has _already_ paid for his drink until much later. Unfolding the bill, Isak stares at the looping handwriting. A name. And a series of numbers. Blood rushes to his ears.

Isak barely registers it when Eva, his colleague, bounces up to him. “Oh my god, I swear the guy that just left looks exactly like Even Bech Næsheim.”

“Even - ” Isak trails off, his voice strangled. He stares down at the neat print on the money note in his hand.

Eva rolls her eyes. “I know you don’t keep up with celebrity news, but you can be so clueless sometimes. Even Bech Næsheim. Only the hottest movie star in Norway.”

_Hottest movie star –_

“Hey what are you staring at?” Eva peers over his shoulder with interest. Isak can almost feel the shock sinking into Eva. Or Eva sinking into the shock.

She stiffens. Sucks in a gasp. Then lets out a blood-curdling screech.

“Holy shit! Isak! That _was him,_ ” Eva cries, jumping up in the air like a fucking cartoon character. “And he fucking gave you his number! Oh my God.”

Then she slaps him on the shoulder, giggling hysterically. “Oh my God you have to call him! Text him! Send him...your nudes!”

“I didn’t even know his name,” Isak murmurs to himself, feeling slightly faint. The mortification rises from his stomach and skitters up his spine. “Fucking hell,” he says, voice rising, “All this time I’ve been giving him shit for not telling me his name!”

Eva widens her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Exasperated, Isak slowly fills her in about the past few weeks of taking Even’s coffee orders. His irrational anger at the man. His grumpy internal monologues.

“Oh my God he must think I’m such an idiot,” Isak says dumbly, shaking his head. He drops his face into his palms as Eva cackles beside him. He lifts his chin absently, eyes trailing towards the glass window, and catches sight of a goddamn bus with Even’s huge face plastered over it. His blinding grin, airbrushed to perfection, drives home the absurdity of Isak’s embarrassing situation. “Oh my God,” Isak repeats to himself.

“I think I cracked a rib laughing. You’ve made my day – no, my week!” Eva giggles, looking at him fondly.

“Shut up,” Isak mutters, without heat. He huffs and falls back into his default moodiness. “I mean, how was I supposed to know? Which fucking celebrity comes into a dinky café before the goddamn sun even rises?”

Eva stares at him. “Um, dude, you should playback what you’ve just said. _That’s_ exactly why he comes during the dead hours of the morning. He wants to escape the crowd.”

Isak lets out a long-suffering sigh. He studies the bill in his hand regretfully. He’d wanted the punch line and now he’s got it. That’s it. The end of the joke. They’ve had a good run – Tuesdays and him. Now Tuesday’s going to go back to the old days of being routine and discipline and perfectly…boring.

“You’re going to see him again, right?” Eva asks, leaning against the counter. Her eyes are bright with mirth.

“Yeah, if he comes back, maybe,” Isak frowns doubtfully. “But I think that’s the end of his incognito stint. He probably wanted to see how long I took to find out.”

Eva widens her eyes almost comically. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He gave you his fucking number! You _have_ to meet him.”

Isak swallows. “Uh, he did ask to meet me after my shift ends.”

Eva lights up like a Christmas tree at the peak of Christmas sales. "Like on a date? A date-date?"

“…But he was probably just kidding,” Isak finishes, folding the bill. He tucks it carefully in the back pocket of his jeans. “It’s pretty funny, y’know. Like, as jokes go.”

Eva dims like a Christmas tree after the end of Christmas sales.

“Please, Isak,” she whines. “You can’t be doing this to yourself. You can’t be doing this to _me._ This is a rom-com waiting to happen!” 

“I’m pretty sure he’s got to actually _like_ me for us to be in a rom-com situation,” Isak snorts. “But he’s a movie star and I’m a poor college student working my ass off to pay for rent. Why the hell would he want anything to do with me?” He gently pushes Eva away and refills the napkins just to have something to do.

“But he like- _likes_ you,” she squeals, trailing after him. She starts shaking his arm furiously. “He wants to go on a date- _date_ with you.”

Isak rolls his eyes good-naturedly, ignoring Eva's stuttered protests. Then he sighs. “You don’t understand. He probably just wanted to see the whole joke play out. Besides,” he blows out a breath. “I’ve been...horrible. He’s been perfectly nice and I was always so rude to him.”

“But-” 

“Look, this is very exciting and all but we’ve got work-work to do.”

He raises his eyes and nods towards an incoming customer. Eva throws him a forlorn look over her shoulder but she eventually relents and goes to work the coffee machine.

Mustering a bright smile, Isak greets the new customer and takes her order. He asks for her name and writes it down. He counts her notes carefully and gives her the correct change.

His back pocket burns through the denim of his jeans for the whole damn day.

* * *

Isak lets out a whooshing breath, eyeing the clock by the corner of the cafe.

It’s _completely_ irrational to feel so jumpy. He’s had some sandwiches for lunch during his break. He’s finished his school assignments. He doesn’t have classes lined up.

But his hands are fluttering restlessly as he wipes down the counter, avoiding Mahdi’s swatting hands as they chase him out of the café. His friend gives him an amused grin. Mahdi doesn’t know why Isak wants to linger, even though his shift is technically over. To be honest, Isak can’t quite explain why either.

Swallowing, he grabs his things with unsteady hands and runs his fingers through his hair. Eva shoots him a knowing look when he leaves. He flips her off.

The bell at the entrance tinkles merrily as he steps out into the cold. Tugging on his gloves, Isak licks his lips and feels them getting chilled by the cool air.

He reflexively pulls out his phone and checks for messages. Scrolls through his social media feed. Laughs at a few memes that Jonas sends him. _Doesn’t_ think about the number in his back pocket.

He hikes his backpack up his shoulder and is about to turn towards the intersection where he will catch a bus when he bumps into a hard block.

“Fuck, ow,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” comes the sheepish reply. “I was waiting by the corner and you didn’t see me so I walked over.”

Raising his head in disbelief, Isak feels his jaw go slack when Tuesday Man - Even Bech Næsheim – smiles tentatively at him. He’s not wearing the grey hoodie that he’d worn in the morning. But he’s still dressed casually, with a denim jacket and dark slacks and - his staple accessory – a ball cap pulled low towards his bright blue eyes.

And he looks so beautiful that a gasp punches its way out of Isak.

“What are you doing here?” He manages to wheeze out, after collecting himself. 

The smile falters slightly. “Um, I told you I wanted to take you out to dinner earlier? Or…if you already have plans…” Then, Even actually slaps a hand across his forehead. “Fuck, I didn’t even ask you if you were available. I didn’t mean to assu-”

“I don’t have any plans,” Isak hears himself say. His voice sound strange and unfamiliar. Pitched wrongly to an awkward key. Isak winces internally.

“Oh,” Even says. He’s staring at Isak. “Do you, um, want to have dinner with me, then?”

Isak blinks up at him. He swears - he must be out of his mind - but he _swears_ Even actually looks fucking _shy._

“Please,” Even says again, after Isak seems to be temporarily rendered speechless. He huffs out a laugh, shakes his head to himself almost absently. “I mean, I’d really, um, like it if you joined me.”

Isak rocks back on his heels. He studies his sneakers, scuffing a shoe across the gravel. Peeks up at Even. A small smile flirts at the corner of his mouth.

“Ok.”

* * *

Dinner starts off…weirdly.

For one, Isak has never had dinner with movie stars before. The most famous person he knows personally is Jonas, who has around 700 subscribers on his Youtube channel. And they’ve shared - quite possibly - at least 800 kebabs between them.

But _this_ is on a whole other league.

Even has picked a greasy, homey Irish pub with sloppily served ribeye and it’s perfect. They settle into a quiet corner of the pub, fiddling with the starched texture of the tablecloth and the newness of their emotions.

Isak’s fidgety and anxious in the beginning, wondering what questions are ok to ask, what may be too inappropriate because what if Even’s PR team sues him for defamatory comments?

But then as the conversations starts and stops in tentative pulses over the dinner table, it gradually finds its pace and starts to flow. Even seems _interested_ in learning about Isak. Which is weird, to say the least. Because he’s apparently noticed Isak whipping out little flashcards during spare minutes at work to study for his Biology courses. And he’s noticed the little Darth Vadar figurine alongside Isak’s gay pride keychain on his set of keys. And he’s noticed Isak muttering N.W.A lyrics under his breath as he wipes down the tables. 

And so, Even has _questions._

He wants to know his favorite Star Wars movie. He wants to know what other movies Isak enjoys. He wants to know if Isak’s heard of Nas. ( _Nas_? Nas.) He wants to know all the scientific theories that Isak is obsessed about. He wants to know his favorite coffee. He wants to know his favorite color. 

Inevitably, the conversation eases into their strange little back-and-forth dance on Tuesdays. 

“At first I’d thought you were playing along.” Even says, laughter dancing in his eyes. “But then it became clear that you truly _didn’t_ know who I was.”

Isak groans and tries to ignore his burning skin. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Even chuckles. “To be honest, by the time I’d figured it out we were stuck in an awkward phase, where it would either be presumptuous or rude to tell you who I actually was. I couldn’t work a way out to let you know.”

“But of course the bigger reason was that you had fun teasing me,” Isak raises an eyebrow pointedly, quirking a grin when Even laughs in delight.

“It _was_ a very interesting time. I looked forward to getting coffee every week.” Then, Even lowers his tone. “You were very charming.”

Isak blushes. He takes a hasty swig of his drink.

He can’t believe it’s never hit him, but Isak realizes just how fucking invested he’s been in figuring out the identity of his mystery customer as he confesses about all the ridiculous conspiracy theories he’s had (undercover cop, mafia boss, a witness under a protection program, but never, _never_ movie star).

They prattle on about inconsequential things, swap stories from their schooling days and move onto deeper topics. Isak asks tentatively about Even’s career, careful not to seem too unmoved or too curious. Frankly, he knows very little about Even’s known works, especially since Even apparently experienced the peak of his success in the last couple of years, when Isak had been buried deep in college assignments.

Sometime over the course of their meal, Isak startles when he _realizes -_ with conviction - that he wants to know this man.

He wants to watch Even laugh, first crinkling his eyes and laughing with _his entire body_ , pitching his upper body forwards. He wants to know Even beyond his coffee orders and his movie star smiles. He wants to see Even without his ball cap. 

In the little corner of the Irish pub, time stutters. 

He feels like they’ve been encased in a luminous thing, a bubble of their own, where only good things stay. Time seems to slow at their table; a gift of an exquisite agony. He’s riding on a strange high – the more they converse, the more he wants to keep going, and yet he doesn’t want to reach the end. He finds himself dancing on the threshold of a sparkling anxiety and an effortless calm, leaping back and forth with the ebb and flow of their words.

Soon, when they’re warm and sated and almost sleepy, when their nervous glances across the table evolve into weighted, lingering looks, they start to trail off into silence. Isak’s almost afraid to prick this frisson around them and watch the magic implode.

When they leave, Even insists on paying the bill. He throws an offhand comment about having Isak treat him back _the next time_. In response, Isak cracks a smile, swallows the lump in his throat.

The uneasy feeling in his chest tips and spills over when they step out into an alleyway together. Without the soft lighting and the mouthwatering smells and the faint music in the background, Isak feels like they’ve been thrust back into cold reality.

He shivers. 

The weighted silence morphs into something almost unbearable.

“So, that was fun,” Isak says lamely. He’s looking down at his feet. 

Even doesn’t say anything. But he takes a step closer, rocks forward on his feet.

Swallowing, Isak scrambles for something to say.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says. He’s probably already said the same thing five minutes ago. “Again," he tacks on. "Anyway. Um, so I should, uh -” 

“When can I see you again?”

“Huh?”

“I want to see you again,” Even says, voice quiet. 

Isak barely holds back a tremble when he realizes that he can feel Even’s breath against his hair.

“I’m not sure if I’m,” He clears his throat, blushing hotly. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.” 

He thinks he hears Even inhale quietly, can almost taste the disappointment in the gasp.

“I understand,” Even eventually says. He swallows audibly, steps away. The space between them looms into a gaping rift. “We should – I uh, I’ll get you a cab.”

Isak chews on his lip as he trails after Even. He clasps the straps of his backpack, tugging them tightly. The windchill burns through the tattered hole in his threadbare chest. He grinds his teeth, grounds his feet.

They lope along the road in silence, flashing lights and screeching tires melting into a faint buzz in the background.

_What the fuck are you thinking?_

“I mean, I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking,” Isak huffs a laugh. As if their previous conversation hadn’t stopped. Even pauses mid-step, turning around.

They stand under a lamppost. Isak studies the shadows, shrunken into dark blobs beneath their feet. Where the soft edges of their shadows touch, the color deepens. He licks his lips, composes his thoughts.

“It’s ok,” Even says, when he sees that Isak’s failing to articulate his thoughts. “I get it. Really.” He smiles. A movie-star grin.

“No you don’t,” Isak shakes his head. “I’d thought that I liked being in control of my life. And I used to think that I had everything under control,” he breaks off, breathing heavily. “And every fucking day I do the same damn thing and at the end of the day when I’m lying in bed I have to try to think of a reason to get up the next day.”

“Isak.”

“I mean, we barely know each other. I didn’t even know your name ten hours ago,” Isak says. “And you’re…you’re a fucking movie star. And I’m just this dumb kid making coffee. And ten hours ago I was so sure that we’d hated each other and you were out to make my life miserable.” 

Even stares at him.

Isak sucks in a breath, “I must out of my mind. But -”

Even kisses him.

A deep, pulsing heat starts low in his belly and makes his toes curl. Even is cradling his face, his fingers so long that they’ve intertwined themselves in his hair. He lets out a gasp when Even nudges his nose gently to get at a better angle and touches his tongue briefly to his.

Their bodies can’t get closer to each other. When Even’s hands slide down his body, find purchase at his hips, Isak lets his fingers flutter upwards to Even’s face, his head.

He slides the ball cap off.

Unthinkingly, as he clutches Even’s hair in his hands, he imagines spun gold.

After an eternity, a snatch-full of minutes, they draw apart.

“I want this,” Isak says belatedly. To Even. To himself. “I want you.”

Even smiles, soft and sweet. He rubs tenderly at his cheeks. 

“You have me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Um, ok. So I wrote this thing. I wasn't supposed to have time to write. But I did. And so.
> 
> This probably isn't the most original idea; there are so many adorable coffeeshop AUs in this fandom so I guess one more won't hurt, right?
> 
> It's *very* vaguely inspired by Brothers Grimm's Rumpelstiltskin. The title was taken from Rumpelstiltskin's rhyme - mostly because I didn't really have a title before I'd started writing this.
> 
> I'm also thinking of writing a series of one-shots inspired by fairy tales. Not so much retelling them, but just stories that very loosely bear certain motifs or themes. Let me know if this sounds interesting! Thank you for reading!


End file.
